SPN-Fanfiction - Dean in trouble with John - preseries
by spnfanfromeurope
Summary: Dean in trouble with John. No smut, no ships. Darker than my usual stuff. This story doesn't contain a spanking, but a full out belt whipping. Trigger warnings: violence, bad parenting and alcohol. Belongs in the same setting as "Ben in trouble" (i.e. my abusiveJohn-verse). Some bad language. No spoilers. Lyrics quoted are credited to J. Hetfield, L. Ulrich & B. Rock. I own nothing


The call came at 2 am.  
"Hello? Mr. Winchester? This is officer Peter Johnson speaking. I've got your son in handcuffs on the side of the road out on route 13 south-bound. Care to come pick him up?"

When the cab rolled up to the police car parked behind the black Impala, Officer Johnson looked in the rear-view mirror at the teenager on the back seat.  
"Looks like your dad is here now, son."

Expecting yet another sassy reply, he turned around in surprise, when he was met with nothing but silence. It didn't look like the teen had heard the remark.  
He was sideways in the seat, looking out the window, following every move of the burly man, who was just getting out after having paid the cabdriver.  
The man looked after the cab until it was out of sight, before he turned towards the patrol car.

Johnson got out of the car, shrugging deeper into his winter-coat. It was no longer just crispy autumn, but in the long hours of a night-shift, the air was getting decidedly icy.  
He sent a thought to his family, safely asleep, filled with turkey and pumpkin pie. He would much rather have been with them. He should have been cuddling up to his wife right now, instead of handing over a teen boy, who liked speed a little too much and had a little too much of a mouth on him for his own good, to his father.  
But the alternative was to bring the boy in, book him, fine him and have to fill out way too much paperwork for this time of the night.  
Besides, Johnson remembered what it was like to be young and full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the world.  
His wife, bless her kind heart, the mother of no less than 3 strapping young men, often said that testosterone should be considered an illegal substance and driving under the influence should be banned. On nights like tonight, Johnson tended to agree.  
But to be fair, the kid had at least chosen a quiet back road for his attempt to break orbit, and had been no danger to anybody but himself, well, and Johnson, who had almost taken his patrol-car into the ditch when that black bunch of muscles came roaring up behind him from out of nowhere and blew past like a bat out of Hell.

He sighed and went to talk - father to father - to this Mr. Winchester about his son's antics.

Winchester didn't say much. The man was quiet, and polite, with an unmistakable air of authority around him.  
When Johnson opened the back door to let the kid out he wasn't met with the shit-eating grin the kid had used, when he was first pulled over, but with a pale, large-eyed face.  
For someone with his hands cuffed behind him, the kid was amazingly agile and slid out of the car with no difficulty.  
When he turned to face his dad, he straightened up, standing like a soldier on the parade ground, head up, shoulders back. He didn't even move when Johnson unlocked the cuffs and put them away. That was a bit unusual, most people would reflexively rub at their wrists, and he could see the red stripes where the cuffs had dug in. Kid must have been quietly straining against them this whole time, because Johnson knew that he hadn't tightened them *that* hard.  
The silence was getting eerie.  
The kid was still as a statue, the dad was scowling, but no-one was saying anything.

Suddenly the man turned to Johnson asking, in that same polite, no nonsense voice, whether he had tested the kid for alcohol. Relieved at the break in the tension, and slightly worried about the way the kid was acting, Johnson was happy to be able to reply, that yes, he had indeed tested the boy, and he tested sober.  
"Good, and we can take the car?"  
"Sure, everything seemed in order, just have a talk with your son about speed limits, and responsible driving, alright?"  
"Yes, Officer, of course, thank you."  
As if prompted the kid replied:  
"Yes Sir, thank you Sir, sorry to have been a bother."

Well, at least the kid did have manners, even if he hadn't been inclined to show them until his dad was present.  
But when Johnson gave the keys to the man, they were instantly tossed to the boy.  
Winchester nodded to the officer and went to sit in the passenger seat. Great, another spoiled brat, being allowed to drive again immediately. Johnson sighed. He had hoped the kid would at least be banned from driving that damn car for a while, but apparently not.  
On the other hand. He had caught a whiff of alcohol on the man's breath, maybe he'd had a few after dinner and wasn't ready to drive yet. That made more sense than this being yet another permissive parent, given the way the kid had reacted to his presence.

The impala roared off into the night, keeping on the right side of the speed limit, and Johnson went back to his warm patrol-car, his lonely thermos of coffee, and his longing for his bed.

"Where's Sam?"  
It wasn't those words Dean had been expecting from his dad at this point, although, well, actually, come to think of it, they were pretty predictable.

"At a friend's house, for dinner and a sleep over."

"I told you to say no to that, when I had you on the phone last night."

Dean swallowed before answering, "Yes sir, but with all due respect, he doesn't meet that many friends, so I gave him permission to go."

He hadn't, Sam had just taken off, but, hey, it was the kid's first girl-friend, and her parents had allowed him to stay the night. In a guest room, in the other end of the house, but still, big step forward for his nerdy little brother.

Dad had been knackered when he got home, had fallen for the good old "research at the library" excuse, too strung out to remember that the library was probably closed by now – or that it was definitely closed on a holiday - and had passed out on the couch after a couple of shots. It must have been a bad hunt, but Dean wasn't going to ask. Letting the old man have some space was usually the best decision, so he'd snuck out for a drive.

He'd driven by the girl's house, checking up on Sammy, but all was quiet. He'd hustled some pool, not enough to make a big wad of cash, but a little to line his pockets, for the next time Dad went hunting and got back later than expected. Luckily the guys at the seedy small-town bar had found it hilarious that a "half-grown stripling" had been able to hustle their best players and hadn't taken offence. Dean had taken the long road back, enjoying a chance to let Baby stretch her legs a bit. Too bad he hadn't trigged to that car in front of him idling along like a greybeard being a police-car.

John just grunted and fell silent. The drive home seemed at the same time very long and not long enough.  
Dean could feel his stomach grow tighter and tighter as the silence grew heavier in the car.  
He finally pulled up by their motel-room, unsurprisingly as the only guests in that entire block of rooms - not many people wanted to spend Thanksgiving in a run-down no-star motel – and killed the engine.  
His dad still didn't say a word, just got out, slammed the door and walked into the motel-room without looking back.

Dean knew he ought to follow quickly, but he couldn't let go of the wheel. He sat there, staring at his hands, fingers white around the leather of the wheel, not able to get them to release, couldn't remember how to get the command from his brain to his hands.  
Finally, finally, they got the message and slowly stretched out, releasing him from his captivity.  
He wasn't aware, that as he was walking towards the motel-room, he was slowly stroking the outside of his upper thigh with one hand, up and down, up and down, as he went. He was instead completely focused on the nausea that was rolling through his stomach like a living thing with a mind of its own.

Carefully, he slithered into the room. His belly did a full somersault. Dad was just sitting there at the table, drinking tequila straight from a half-full bottle. Shit, tequila. Beer, whisky, no problem, Dad would take a few and stop, go to sleep, wake up grumpy but otherwise okay. But tequila, that was for the tough times, when the hunt had been real bad or the memories of past hunts, past fights, past losses, were beating at him.

"Sit" Dad pointed at the chair across from him. Dean sat.

After a while, since nothing seemed to happen, Dean shrugged out of his jacket and heavy plaid shirt. The room was hot, the nausea still rolling and after waiting outside while the Impala grew cold, the heat in the motel-room seemed stifling.  
He moved slowly, like a man faced with a lion, but Dad didn't respond, so he settled down to wait.  
In the darkness behind his eyes, where no-one could hear, he started humming to himself:  
 **"** Take my hand, we're off to Never -Never-land… mm mmm mmm Dreams of war, Dreams of liars, Dreams of dragon fire….mmmhhmmm"  
It helped.  
His hand, rubbing up and down his thigh, stilled as time floated on, and Dad drank in silence.

Dean was tired, bone tired, and slowly let his head rest on one hand, eyes almost ready to close, when the empty bottle suddenly flew from his dad's hand past Dean's head to smash against the wall. The chair rattled on the floor as Dean startled to his feet – damn, the old man was fast, he was around the table before Dean was fully aware of what was happening. He saw the slap coming too late but managed to turn his head to save his face and got his arms up in time to bounce the returning back hand off of an elbow, the blow hard enough to send a buzz down his arm, making his father growl in annoyance.

Dad was cursing about attitude, idiocy, recklessness, taking care of Sammy, getting police attention, and taking stupid risks. Dean wasn't really listening, as he had been slammed into the wall and was busy trying to convince the air to reenter his lungs. Dad shook him and slammed him into the wall again.

"Please, Dad, stop, please, stop, please."

In response his arm was grabbed, and he was turned around to face the wall.  
"Drop them."  
Dad was growling, and Dean knew the time for pleading was over. Now quiet was the way to go. Any more pleading or begging would just piss the old man off even more.  
Pissed off John Winchester was bad news.  
John Winchester drinking tequila was bad news.  
Pissed off John Winchester hopped up on tequila, was beyond bad, into nuclear territory.

There was no help to find any more, begging would make matters worse, and as for praying – Dean had learned a long time ago that praying fell on ears as deaf as his dad's, if there even were any ears out there to listen, which he sincerely doubted.

He managed to stop shaking long enough to get his jeans to his knees and lean forward, placing his hands on the wall.  
He heard the hiss of Dad's old leather belt getting pulled through its pant-loops and his heart started pounding so hard it almost felt as if it was trying to leave his chest. Not that he blamed it, he didn't want to be here either.

The first searing crack of leather on skin was heard, and the first line of pain landed across his ass. John was quick and determined, but not very precise. Only a few smacks later, he landed the belt right across Dean's knees, making them buckle.  
The next lash was already on its way as Dean went down onto his knees, and it landed across his back, sending the air out of his lungs in a rush.  
Covering his head with his arms, he risked a glance back - should he try to get back up? But his father's face was blank as he hit him again, and again, and again.  
Adrenaline rushed through Dean's body and brain as panic took over the control-center... He stumbled to his feet and made for the door.

Even though well trained, a sixteen-year-old, tired, panicking kid, with his ankles trapped in a pair of jeans isn't much of a match for a furious, fully grown, ex-marine hunter - the man, who trained the kid in the first place – even if the man is three sheets to the wind at the time.  
The tussle was fast and ugly, and ended with Dean face-down on the bed, half smothered by a dirty blanket, getting the living daylights whipped out of him.  
He stopped struggling, focusing on getting air into his lungs, survival taking precedence over smaller matters such as avoiding temporary pain and humiliation.

The lack of resistance did help a bit: John let go of Deans hair, making it easier to breathe.  
Dean shoved one arm under his face to give himself room, if the hand should come back, and to keep his face away from the disgusting blanket, while he wrapped his other arm around the back of his head for protection, since Dad didn't seem to care much where the belt landed.

At least having both hands free made his dad shift position, and the belt stopped dancing over Dean's back, instead focusing on his ass and upper thighs.  
It still hurt like a wicked bitch, but the change in targets did make it easier to breathe through the pain and at least he wouldn't end up peeing blood from the beating.  
Thankfully, after that, the whipping didn't last much longer, even though to Dean, obviously, it seemed like forever. John dropped the belt on the ground. Stared at his son for a moment. Then he growled:  
"You ever get yourself arrested again, I'll just tell the damn cops to let you rot in jail. You understand?"  
Dean managed to croak out a "Yes, Sir," which apparently satisfied, since John stomped off to the couch where he landed with a whump and passed out almost immediately.

Dean stayed exactly where he was, while the sweat slowly dried on his body, sending chills up and down his spine.  
Finally, when he was sure that Dad was well and truly lights-out, he pushed himself off the bed, slowly, slowly, got his boots and jeans off, leaving them where they landed, and made his careful way to the bathroom.  
Getting out of his t-shirt was a chore and a half.  
The drink of chilly water was a blessing in his dry throat.  
Wincing in anticipation, he turned his back to the mirror, trying to inspect the damage.  
His ass and upper thighs was a bright red, like a baboon on one of those nature shows Sam sometimes wanted to watch, there were a handful of welts lower down towards the knees, and his back looked like striped bacon ready for the pan.  
Shit, he had PE on Monday, might have to skip school unless they were on the road again before that.

Moving like a 90-year-old, and feeling like one too, he gingerly got another t shirt and a fresh pair of boxers on – he didn't know exactly when Sam would show up after his evening out, but it wouldn't do to sleep bare-assed, if the kid came back early. Even if it was tempting to avoid having anything touch his ass or back for the next few hours.  
But: Sam didn't need to see the stripes. Didn't need to learn that his skipping out for that Thanksgiving dinner and sleep-over had played any part in the price Dean had paid for his own evening of freedom.

He was so tired. So very, very tired.

Cautiously Dean got into bed, under the ugly, stupid, dirty blanket and slowly let go of consciousness, falling into blessed, painless sleep as the Sandman finally made his appearance. Tones floated disjointedly through Dean's mind as it let go of the world for a time: "Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight… Exit light, Enter night."


End file.
